


Lying Mouths

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Break Up, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Letting Draco go was harder than Hermione thought it would be. It wasn't as if she thought what they had would be a forever thing, but the end can sometimes be a new beginning too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

* * *

**Lying Mouths**

Packing

Letting Draco go was harder than Hermione thought it would be. It wasn't as if she thought what they had would be a forever thing. She'd never let herself believe she was anything but a distraction for him. Something to do until he had to become the Malfoy heir he was expected to be. It wasn't as if she hadn't acted in a similar way herself when they'd first started . . . whatever this was. They'd both attended some Ministry meet and greet; Draco was a well-known perennial bachelor, she had just broken up with Ron, and Draco made her _feel_ things she'd never felt before. Hermione had engaged Malfoy in one of their regular heated debates and instead of being dragged away by Ron for "embarrassing him" as she had been countless times before, Hermione found herself in a broom cupboard with the blond-haired git, her underwear long lost, her dress hiked up around her hips as they discovered a much more satisfying way to end an argument.

Sex with Malfoy was like nothing she'd ever known before, not that she had much to hold it up against. She and Ron had _tried_ at a relationship, tried and failed, ending most nastily. Molly refused to talk to her, Ginny cut her off completely, and Fred was stuck in the middle; he'd always liked Hermione's company, but in the Weasley world loyalty to the family came before maintaining friendships. Her interactions with Arthur at the Ministry were still the same. He was as friendly as ever and imparted his wisdom when he felt it was needed, which he did a lot whenever it came to the subject of her and Malfoy.

Arthur had been the one she'd turned to when it had all finally gone up in a fiery mess. He'd also been the first to offer her a shoulder to cry on, even when she was adamant that she was fine, that she wasn't affected in the least by their breakup —she was surprised they'd lasted _this_ long, really, she was. Arthur had always taken on a fatherly role in her life, even more so when she realised that any hope she'd held out on reversing the memory charm she'd put her parents under was all for naught. The perfect Obliviation spell had been just that, far too perfect. They'd never remember the daughter they loved, who they'd seen off to a magical side of the world few Muggles were ever privy to. They'd also never see how the war had affected her, nor see who she'd shared her bed with for the past four years. They also missed how incredibly lost she was now without Draco in her life.

Hermione wandered through the rooms of what had been their home. She heard his laugh echo around empty corners, long and loud, in complete opposition to the haughty exterior he'd exuded most of the time she'd known him. She could feel his presence in the study, see him at the other side of her desk, looking at her over steel frames he'd never publicly admit to needing, let alone wearing. This was why she had to sell up. Start new. Start fresh. Everything here reminded her of what they'd had, what she eventually thought they'd have for a lot longer.

It had been six months since he'd told her he was leaving, since Draco had broken what they had and, in essence, broken her. Hermione sipped at the glass of gin in her hand, her nose screwing up at the taste. She'd never liked the stuff but found herself drinking more of it lately. It was pathetic how just the smell made her feel closer to him. Gin and tonics were something Draco had taken up when they'd started dating. She'd taken him to Muggle restaurants and bars and it had somehow become his beverage of choice. Hermione had always made sure there was a sapphire bottle or two in the house before he'd eventually moved in, and even afterward she would make the trip into Sainsbury's just because she knew he liked it. It was the little things, like making sure she still had enough lemons or that perfect brand of toilet paper in the house . . . the trivial yet important stuff she still found herself doing that dragged her back to the reality she lived in, over and over again. Even now, as she swirled the ice in her glass and stood gazing into the bedroom where more than just sex had occurred, she still found it hard to believe she ever _had_ Draco at all.

They'd slept in there. _Slept_. His arm around her, her leg thrown over his. Sometimes she was the big spoon, sometimes he would squash her with his weight, almost as if he forgot he was sharing a bed. There were nights when they'd just lain there, face to face under the comforter, whispering secrets and coveting the soft touch of fingertips on skin. Sometimes they didn't talk at all.

Hermione huffed, throwing back the last of her drink, and decided the bed could stay too. No more memories. No more wondering if things could be different if she had not argued so much, if she hadn't been so pushy, if she hadn't wanted more. Why couldn't she just be happy with what they had? That's what he'd said before turning to the Floo and disappearing into the heatless green flames.

" _Why can't you leave well enough alone?"_

Well enough? Did he really think anything between them was in any way, shape, or form "well"? They constantly fought, were at each other's throats over any and every subject imaginable. She wanted to paint the bathroom blue, he thought white would look cleaner. He wanted to hire someone to mow the lawn on a Sunday, she thought it wouldn't hurt him to get his hands dirty. On and on it went, the little things mounting unspoken, only to be revealed in snippy retorts and silent treatments. Soon, something would cause a break and it was as if a volcano of emotion would erupt, vitriol spewing between them until every annoyance was aired. Then the passion would ignite and they'd end up working out their "differences" on floor and against wall. Push and pull and touch and _ohgodsyesrightthere_ they were good at. It was the in-between they found difficult. Sometimes quiet couldn't be just that; one would fidget assuming the other was "thinking" too much.

That was the major problem between them: they never could just "be".

"H? Hermione, you still here?" Blaise's voice drifted down the hall from the living room. Hermione turned and walked back the way she'd come, calling out to him on the way.

Blaise looked worried. He knew today would be hard on her and had offered to help pack up the last of her things to ease the final goodbye. Hermione didn't need that; she wanted to wallow, even if it had gone on now for far too long, according to her friends.

Friends. Even now, nearly nine years out of Hogwarts, it felt weird to refer to these select few people in her life as that. Blaise and Pansy, Theo and Millicent, even Greg Goyle she knew she could count on when needed. It didn't even seem strange to Hermione any more that those who she once held dear were merely faces she'd smile at in Ministry corridors or have the odd (monthly . . . or had it been a year now?) catch-up with over a glass of butterbeer. Harry found it hard to stay neutral after she and Ron ended. It didn't help that Ginny refused to have a thing to do with her, and Harry didn't exactly love the fights his friendship with Hermione caused with his wife. He had at least tried to keep the closeness between them, refusing to let the fact that the "Golden Trio" were nothing of the sort any more get in the way of being there for Hermione. All that changed, of course, when she revealed that she'd started this . . . something with Malfoy. The fire-call chats and drinks at the Leaky turned into the occasional owl and, eventually, a card at Christmas depicting the start of a family Hermione wasn't permitted to know at all.

As she rounded the corner, Blaise was still brushing the soot from the shoulders of his plum Auror robes. Draco had hated the fireplace; its ability to store up a significant amount of soot and belch it out onto unsuspecting company had him threatening to tear it down brick by brick more often than not (it probably didn't help that its unpredictability usually landed a flurry of black flakes on _his_ suits.) Hermione refused to get rid of it on that principle alone.

"I tell you one thing, H, I'll be glad to arrive in your new place without having to rely on cleansing charms to look halfway decent!" Blaise's smile was wide, mirth dancing in his dark eyes as he stepped forward, pulling Hermione into his arms for a welcoming embrace. Blaise had always been touchy-feely with her, a fact that had driven Draco mad—he probably expected Blaise to make a move on her after the "break-up". It was something Hermione was glad hadn't occurred. Blaise had certainly made it clear _before_ she'd gotten together with Draco that he liked her like that; but after four years of getting to know one another, they had more or less come to a point where more than friendship wasn't on the cards any longer.

Hermione breathed in deeply, letting the warmth of Blaise's arms around her and the scent of his expensive cologne sooth her frayed nerves. "And I thought you liked the old girl," Hermione teased, stepping back and raising her hand to clear an errant black mark from the man's cheek. She looked past his tamed sable curls to the fireplace beyond. "You hear that, Bessie? You obviously didn't make a lasting impression on this one!" Bessie was the name Draco had given the fireplace one night when they'd stumbled through in the wee hours of the morning from a party at Pansy's, and the fireplace had covered _him_ head to toe in soot, funnily enough, but left Hermione completely free of dust.

That was the first time Draco had told her he loved her. She was so shocked at hearing the word, let alone the meaning behind it, that she didn't acknowledge he said anything. Hermione walked into the kitchen to grab a broom; Draco was right behind her, ceasing his ranting only to ask what she thought. . . .

"What do I think about what?" Hermione had her head stuck in the cupboard to hunt up the dustpan and brush and was slightly ignoring whatever it was Draco kept saying about the fireplace.

When she turned around he was standing at the counter opposite, one hand tucked into his dark slacks and the other making a general mess of his now ash-covered locks. Draco was chewing on his bottom lip, a nervous tic she hadn't seen since his trial and even after, when they'd gone on their first official date—not just the casual shag they'd been enjoying for seven months prior.

"What I said."

"What you said when?" Hermione asked distractedly, not truly paying attention to what he was saying but concentrating more on deciding whether using the dustpan and brush would be gentle enough on the rug or spelling the mess out would be less invasive. She heard him sigh as she wandered back into the living room and assessed the soot situation.

"You're going to make me say it again, aren't you? I should have known you would." His voice was tight and quiet, restrained almost, which was a tone Hermione hadn't heard Draco use very often. If at all. With this realisation she stopped her staring contest between the rug and the brush in her hand and looked up at where he'd now jammed both hands deep into his pockets. Even covered in soot he looked rather edible, his sooty grey hair falling in front of his eyes, the white of his shirt—more black now—dishevelled, the tails hanging loosely where he'd pulled them out after coming home.

"Draco, I have no idea what part of what you said you want me to think about." She finished with an almost-huff of annoyance. Didn't he realise even though he was mostly clean, she still had a floor and part of one wall to clean of black soot?

"About Bessie," he said, scuffing his shoe over what was had been a single flake but had now turned into a dirty great mark on the white Aubusson rug that he had been the one to pick for just this spot (she had told him it was a bad idea, white in front of a fireplace with Floo powder, foolishness).

"Draco, did you _have_ to do that with your shoe? And Bessie who?"

"The fireplace."

"What about the fireplace?"

"The fireplace is Bessie."

"How many shots of Vladimir's vodka did you have? Did he put some super-strength inhibitions loser charm on it again?"

"Salazar's left nut! You'd think this would be easy, but no—tell a girl you love her and all she can do is argue and pretend she didn't hear the word," Draco said, more to the ceiling than anyone else as that was where, out of frustration, he was now looking instead of her.

Love?

"You what? When? We were talking about some girl called Bessie!" Hermione was well and truly confused—and babbling.

Draco bent and wordlessly spelled the black mark clean from the rug. "It really goes to show, Granger, just how well you listen to me," he said, still focused on the floor although the area was now clean. "I said, I really must love you if I can look past Bessie the Belching Fireplace and not care that it's ruined nearly every single one of my robes."

Hermione didn't speak, she couldn't. He loved her? Draco had said the words and even re-said them in such a nonchalant manner that to the eye untrained in Malfoy-watching, you would think he was doing just that, talking about the fireplace. However, when she really looked at him (which she did because words, for once, were beyond Hermione's grasp), she saw the first hints of red blushing over his grey-dusted cheeks.

Salazar's left nut, all right. She never would have pictured Draco being the one to say the word first, and much less mean it.

"I'm heading for the shower. Maybe when you've picked your jaw up off the floor you can come do my back. Compensation for loving you despite the blasted Floo." And with that he sauntered off, leaving Hermione in exactly the state he'd described.

It had taken her an additional three months to say the word back to him. Draco had said it again a few times, dropping it into conversation randomly, and Hermione was never completely sure he meant it. She could see it in his eyes when they made love (for she _was_ sure about that), she could feel it in his hand upon the small of her back when they walked through an art gallery or even when they went out for dinner. Of course, when Hermione finally decided to tell him she felt it too, she bumbled on and on about what he meant to her and how she'd never thought they'd get to this point until finally he shushed her with a finger over her lips and a "You love me, too—I get it, Granger."

They'd just stared at each other after that, his hand still clasped in hers, ignoring the landscape they'd previously been enjoying after a picnic at one of Draco's family vineyards in Bordeaux. They'd gone back and enjoyed that spot every year to the day since . . . well, until now.

No more free Cabernet Sauvignon taste testing for her, or an endless wine cellar, either.

Well, she had gin now, anyhow. Even if it was more _him_ than her.

"Are you okay there, H?" Blaise's concerned tone and hands squeezing lightly on her forearms brought her back out of her reverie.

She smiled shakily, pulling herself free of his caring touch, and ran a hand through her now-short curls. Draco had always liked her hair long, the teasing about its wild ways more to do with his need to run his hands through it than anything else. A week after she realised he truly wasn't coming back she'd had it shorn about two inches from her skull, a sign if ever there was to be one that she wasn't coping with the change. Hermione found she actually liked the fact that she only had to pluck at a few stray locks with her fingers for it to look nice, instead of the multitude of spells and magical balms that had been required to get her previous length to do anything.

"Fine. Fine. Don't look at me like that, Blaise." She frowned at his frown as he still surveyed her face for truth behind the words. Hermione knew there wasn't much to find.

"Sure you are." He nodded to where Hermione had placed the empty glass on one of the boxes at the door when she'd walked in. "Nice one, H. I guess it's always five o'clock somewhere, right?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, turning to pick up the glass and heading into the kitchen. It was actually a little after one in the afternoon; she didn't see anything wrong with one indulgence (or was it three?), so she chose to ignore him. "I've just about got everything packed. If you could help me with the sofa, that would be great."

"I don't know why you won't let us do this with magic, H. You'd be out of here in minutes, not days."

Hermione knew that. She also knew that doing things the Muggle way let her hold on to all of this, all of _him_ and what they'd had, for a little bit longer.

"I'm moving into a Muggle neighbourhood, Blaise. I can't exactly just appear with a fully furnished home like that." She clicked her fingers. "People would notice, I'm sure."

Blaise rolled his eyes, opening the fridge and taking out one of the few lagers Greg had left when Hermione had had everyone over a week ago. Well, not that she'd invited any of them; Hermione had walked through her Floo one evening after to find a party of ex-Slytherins and even some Gryffindors in full swing. Apparently her friends weren't taking her excuses for not going out with them any more and had decided to take matters into their own hands. It should have been weird to have all of _his_ friends there. Nearly every other face in the house that night had at one stage acted frostily or even worse to her before. That had all changed, though, once the war was over and parents who had forced ideals on unknowing children were either dead, in Azkaban, or at St. Mungo's, cursed to the point of living out the rest of their lives with mush for brains. Relationships had evolved even further when everyone had found out about the Buck-Toothed Bookworm and Slimy Ferret Git actually _seeing_ each other. Sure, she and Draco had lost a few friends on both sides when they'd come out in public about who they were to each other. Yet the ones they managed to keep had somehow accepted them both, being on neither one side nor the other. A fact that seemed to hold even after she and Draco were a couple no more.

"Please, H. You're looking at a wizard who casts simple Obliviation charms at least three times a day when Muggles get in our way. I could have the whole neighbourhood done in no time. I just wish they'd give the go-ahead on that little blinder contraption thing they had in that moon-vie you made us watch. That and the black suits. I mean, really, is plum _anyone's_ colour?"

Hermione laughed, remembering how excited Blaise and Draco had been when she'd found an old copy of _Men In Black_ and they'd commented on how alike the Deneuralizerwas to using both Obliviation and the Deluminator that Ron owned. Draco had gotten it into his head that it would help with controlling crowds when magical quirks popped up in the Muggle world and had actually discussed working on a prototype of one with Arthur. The same Arthur who then evaded telling the complete truth to his son about just why he wanted to borrow Dumbledore's old toy.

"Arthur thinks it's only Patterson holding them back now. He mentioned something about putting in another application soon," Hermione said, toying with the lid from her now-empty tonic bottle.

Blaise took a healthy swig from his can and nodded. "Draco mentioned he'd be working on him when he got back from Italy. If anyone can persuade that old nag to give in, it'll be Malfoy."

Italy? So that's where he'd buggered off to now. No wonder she hadn't seen Draco . . . then again, it wasn't like she'd been looking for a long while, more studiously avoiding him so her heart wouldn't break any further. Hermione focused on breathing in and out. It wasn't as if she didn't hear Draco's name all the time. She worked in the same division he did in the Ministry, but in a very different area. He was one of the faces of the DMLE, she was merely a "desk filler", although a little more than that; she actually ran a smaller offshoot that dealt with the Law Enforcement side of things for Minor Magical Creatures. She hated that name, but even in the three years since taking on the role she hadn't made any headway toward getting it changed.

She swallowed and hoped to school her features into a look of mediocre interest. "That's great. Arthur will be happy. So, how are you and . . . Maggie? Melissa? Melody?"

Blaise rolled his eyes, coming to stand beside where Hermione was leaning against the bench. He bumped his shoulder into hers before answering. "You know it's Mandy. Good, I suppose. I haven't seen her much in the last week or two because I've been helping this mad woman who wants to sell the perfectly fine house she owns to move into a dingy bedsit in the middle of Edinburgh."

"Really," Hermione said drily.

"And she's been making me wrap her breakables by hand," he said with an air of disgust.

"Well, I never."

Blaise leaned closer to her ear and whispered, "But, when she's out of the room, I use my wand instead."

Hermione smiled. "Just like any good Slytherin would do. And just like any good Gryffindor, she knows of this and has to rewrap it all once he leaves and then explain to their friends why, no, she can't head out to the pub tonight for a catch-up because she's still packing!" She nudged Blaised in the ribs with her elbow before both fell into fits of laughter.

A few minutes later, when they could finally breathe again without one looking at the other and starting another round of chortles, Blaise's look turned serious. "Really, though, H. You should come out, my lame packing skills or not. There's a party at Milly's tonight, and–"

Hermione shook her head and took a step away from the bench. "No, I've got far too much to do and not enough time to do it in. The real estate agent wants to start showing people through and I start my new job on Tuesday. I have to be out of here by tomorrow afternoon at the latest."

"So you're really leaving, then?" She could hear Blaise plucking at the tab of his can and pictured the intense look on his face that usually went with the habit.

"Yes. I need a change. I just. . . ." She sighed, watching a reel of good and bad (more the latter than the former) moments between her and Draco arguing about the same thing run over and over behind her closed eyelids. "I can't stay here. I can't be anywhere near _here_."

Hermione opened her eyes and looked out the kitchen window into the medium-sized yard she and Draco had pottered about in every weekend. He would whine about having to lift a finger and would more often than not be caught leaning on the pitchfork while she bent low to plant azaleas. He would say he was enjoying the view and she would snort that he was a lazy arse. He'd comment on what a _lovely_ arse she had, and then they'd get dirt and compost in places where no one should _ever_ get dirt and compost. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and was reminded once more of why it was she needed to leave.

"It won't always feel like this, Hermione." Blaise's tone was soft and Hermione hugged her arms around her chest, hoping to hold in any comfort his words would give her. Even if it was an exercise in futility, she'd heard those words and ones like it countless times before and nothing, nothing made any difference.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione turned and gave her best "I'm okay, really" smile to her worried friend. "Come on, the dishes aren't about to bubble-wrap themselves, now, are they?"

"Just so you know, I'll be using my wand."

"I wouldn't have expected any less."


	2. Antiques

Antiques

It was hours later when she and Blaise finished packing the last of the kitchen goods and stacked all the boxes in the front hall and sitting room ready for the truck to pick up in the morning. Hermione was sitting on the sofa that they'd covered with a drop sheet because it was _his_ , and she intended to send it back in good shape to the Manor or wherever it was he lived now. Blaise argued that it was a stupid idea, the git could buy a hundred sofas and she would need something to sit on. He argued similarly about the bed she was leaving. The thing was, she didn't _want_ any sign of Draco in her new life.

It was rather the point, after all.

Hermione sat and stared into the empty fireplace. The house had always retained the summer heat well and even now, at the end of the season, she could let the cooling charms fade and it would still be pleasant enough inside. She sipped at the last of her gin— _his_ gin (did it even matter any more?)—and watched the shadows from the branches moving in the breeze outside, dancing in the moonlight on the wooden floor. Hermione hadn't stopped staring at that particular part of the floor, much darker than the rest because of the rug that had lain upon it and never really been moved for years now.

The house was quiet; almost too quiet, for it let all the worries Hermione had about making this life-altering change come alive, loudly. She knew it was a risk moving so far from the friends she considered family. Even Arthur hadn't been as supportive as she'd expected. He'd simply looked up from where he'd been tinkering with the television she'd brought back from her parents' house years ago and asked her if she enjoyed running. Hermione had looked at him quizzically, stilling her hands from swapping back and forth the plug she'd picked up while she'd walked around his shed and rambled on about a possible move to Scotland.

Molly had burst in earlier to remind Arthur of dinner at Percy's, stopping in mid-sentence when she noticed Hermione. For the first time in five years the Weasley matriarch actually made eye contact. Molly had muttered an awkward "Hello, dear," then Disapparated immediately as if realising what words had left her mouth. The moment had left Hermione unsettled. Did it mean that after all this time the woman she'd once looked to as a mother figure was finally ready to accept the decisions Hermione had made in her life? Hermione's whole "you can't stop me, I've made my choice" speech was shaken, leaving her rambling to Arthur and confused by his comment about running.

"No, I've never been the athletic type, Arty," she said, using the shortened form of his name that he hated but would on some occasions let Draco slip past.

The elder Weasley looked at her pointedly. "Not that, Hermione. Leaving everything and everyone you know and love. People who care about you."

Hermione turned back to the bench, spinning the plug on the surface as she took in what Arthur had said. "Scotland isn't that far away. It's not like I see everyone now, being so busy at work."

There was a long sigh behind her and her name was spoken softly. "Just because you don't see them doesn't mean they stop caring, my girl."

It had to have been a speck of dust or something that chose that moment to become stuck in her eye, causing a few tears to roll down Hermione's cheek which she scrubbed at with the back of her hand. "Harry and Ron haven't spoken to me in years; I don't think my move north will affect them in the least."

"It wasn't _them_ I was talking about."

Hermione nodded, her throat too tight with emotion to do anything more. She knew Draco and Arthur had formed some bond of mutual respect but hadn't expected him to almost stick up for the son of his once almost-arch enemy.

"Does he—" Hermione stopped before the question she hadn't let herself ask even of Draco's closest friends slipped from her lips. She avoided looking at Arthur, instead deciding this was as good a time as any to leave. She cleared her throat and forced a smile. "I should be going. I'll see you for that lunch meeting on . . . Thursday, wasn't it?"

"No, they changed it to Wednesday. The memo should be on your desk, it was sent late yesterday."

"Right, good, good." Hermione made her way to the door, only stopping when Arthur called her name.

"He does, every time I see him. He always asks."

She didn't wait another second to Disapparate back to her house and found herself in a crumpled heap on _that_ bloody rug when she landed.

Hermione hadn't really spent much time with Arthur since then. The odd meet-up in the corridors of the Ministry or waiting in the queue for the Floo at the Atrium. She definitely didn't make any other visits to the Burrow; just the thought of seeing Mrs. Weasley again after their last strange encounter did funny things to Hermione's stomach. Was it because she'd finished with Malfoy that had the woman deciding to be "nice" to her after all these years? Or was it purely because Hermione was leaving the area and would most likely see Mr. Weasley less and less? The thought that either of those reasons alone were what had Molly speaking two words to her reminded Hermione of the other reason she needed to get away: starting somewhere new, where she wasn't "that one who broke Ron's heart" or "the Muggleborn who thought she'd snared a Pureblood". The _Prophet_ wasn't read as widely in the Highlands. Maybe they'd forgotten about the girl behind the "Brightest Witch of Her Age" tagline and she could simply be Hermione Jean Granger once more.

Gods, she needed a drink, or another and another. The day had been long—hell, the past six months since he'd been gone and even the year since things had started to slowly disintegrate had felt like a forever she'd had to endure. She had to get out of here; her whole body was itching with memories and "what-ifs" about a past she'd had and a future of possibilities in front of her. She was moving house in the morning, but it was obvious even to Hermione that it would not do to stay a minute longer at what had once been more than just a place to rest her head. As she stood up, stretching out the kinks in her body from resting too long, she caught sight of Blaise's familiar scrawl on one of the last boxes they'd packed. Hermione smiled and headed down the hall to her bathroom, thoughts of seeing familiar faces one last time on her mind.

As she walked up the little lane from the Apparation point, Hermione could hear the hubbub of familiar voices and what appeared to be the unintelligible sounds of Ernie Macmillian's so-called band filtering through the woods. Hermione smiled, pulled the light robe she'd thrown on last minute around her shoulders, and quickened her step. Making the decision to catch up with her friends had lightened her heart somewhat, but seeing the bright windows of Milly and Greg's cottage made her realise just how much she needed this—not that she'd admit that to Blaise any time soon.

The accent of something sweet and floral was in the air as she slipped through the front gate and climbed the few stairs onto the porch, careful to walk around the rotten board that Greg would "get around to fixing one day." He'd been saying that since Draco had first brought her to their house, much to Milly's discomfort. Hermione tucked away that first awkward meeting and the feel of Draco's hand in hers all night; she wasn't coming over to reminisce on times gone by. She was here to enjoy a last few drinks with friends. Just as she was taking off her robe and adjusting her skirt from travel, she heard a low baritone followed by the sound of a female voice and then the door opening.

"—glad she didn't come. She wouldn't want to see him like that—oh, Hermione!" Pansy stepped out into the light with Blaise right behind her. They stopped stock-still in the middle of the doorway and looked nothing short of shocked to see her. Understandably; she hadn't freely attended a get-together for a long while now, and she had repeatedly told Blaise she wouldn't be coming tonight, either.

"Hiya. Thought I'd drop by after all, I hope that's alright?" Hermione asked with a nervous chuckle.

The two in front of her were exchanging strange looks, then glancing at Hermione and finally over their shoulders. Blaise raised an eyebrow and Pansy shook her head, her crow-black hair swinging around her face from the force of it. The almost comical non-verbal conversation went on between the two until eventually Hermione had had enough.

"As good as you both think you might be at miming, this is a little ridic—"

"Oi, you two! Thanks for leaving me stranded out there with bloody Lovegood. You know I can't understand—oh, Granger."

His tone changed completely once he'd pushed past Blaise and finished lighting his cigarette only to look up and finally notice who was staring gape-mouthed at him, her robe still clasped in her fingertips.

Draco.

Gods, he looked good. Well, even. Dressed in what she knew to be his favourite tailored black slacks and a white button-up rolled to his elbows, showing off toned forearms and almost tanned skin (had he _finally_ managed to capture some colour, being in Italy?) The ensemble was finished with an impossibly soft silver scarf knotted loosely around his neck. She recognized it as from his last birthday; he'd tied her to the bedpost with it when they'd gotten home from the ridiculously large surprise party Theo and Pansy had thrown him. Draco had shagged her senseless till dawn. In the end, the fine woven cloth felt more like a gift for her than it was for him. Hermione hadn't realised till now that he'd taken it; he'd left so many of his things at the house it was no wonder she'd thought it was only a phase and that he'd come back to them. (After a month she'd cast a cleansing Incendio on the lot of it in their backyard, over his newly budding rosebushes).

While she unconsciously studied the man who at one stage had been her everything, his eyes never seemed to leave her face. It was almost as if staring at her would keep her standing there. Which in truth, it did while she reeled from the shock of seeing him in the flesh after so very long.

"Hello," she whispered. Cursing herself as the word left her mouth because, really, " _Hello_ " was the best she could come up with?

She blinked and he blinked and that little muscle in his jaw pulsed—he was nervous, too. He only ever ground his teeth that hard for two reasons: biting his tongue and just before he came. Obviously it wasn't the latter.

Somehow, even now after everything, Hermione wished it was.

"You look—"

"So do you."

"Your hair—"

She shrugged her shoulders, her fingertips patting over her short locks. "I needed a change."

"Right. Right."

Silence swelled around them until all she could hear was the rapid beating of her own heart as she watched him lick his lips, tapping the ash from his now forgotten cigarette onto the ground. She chewed the inside of her lip and he shifted from one foot to the other, finally stamping out the smoke with his boot, then together they broke the awkward moment.

"You're selling our house—"

"How was Italy—"

A pause while each recovered from what the other had said, then it was no holds barred.

" _Our_ house? Since when is it 'our house' again—"

"Did you think I wouldn't notice? My furniture is in—"

"You've got to be kidding! Furniture? I would hardly count the sofa—"

"And we're back there again; it was a present from my _mother_ , Granger! It's an ant—"

"Antique? Don't make me laugh! I've got socks that are—"

"Are you calling my mother a liar, Granger? Really?"

"Oh ho! I'm _ever_ so sorry, _Lord_ Malfoy. I forgot your family would _never_ stoop to such a base—"

"Right, you two! This is getting out of hand and it really isn't the time for another of your world-famous arguments." Blaise stepped in between them, guiding Hermione back with his hands lightly on her shoulders. Hermione hadn't realised how close she'd actually gotten to her ex, or how affected she was from just having him near (or the argument; it could have been either or both). Her magic was tingling on the tip of her wand hand, and she itched to dive into her pocket and pull the thing out to hex Draco into next week.

Blaise shook his head quickly, his eyes dipping to her twitching fingers, at which Hermione took a deep breath and reined in her anger.

"Look," she started, stepping out from under Blaise's touch, "I'll just leave. You were here before me. I only wanted to pop in to say hello and I've done that, sort of. I'd love to say it was nice to see you, Malfoy, but we both know that would be a fantastical lie, so I'll be heading—"

"No, I've been at the party for a while and you've just got here, so you stay. I'll go." Draco's eyes softened for a moment, staring at her with what could only possibly be pity. Pity? She hadn't even wanted to come in the first place! Not that he knew it was a spur of the moment decision, but still! She could be the bigger person in this.

"Stay, Malfoy. I've got things to do. It's fine."

"I insist, Granger. They're your friends, too. Well, technically they were mine—"

"Really? You're pulling the who knew who first card? Fine, I'm staying. _You_ can go—"

Draco's hand gripped her outstretched finger that had been poking into his chest with every one of her last words, and with a distinct "pop" they were gone, leaving Blaise and Pansy simultaneously worried and happy to see the back of them both.  
  



	3. Hearing

Hearing

She really should have changed the wards.

"You complete imbecile! You do realise you could have splinched us both with a move like that? Honestly, you never thi—"

Her rant came to a forced end when his lips pressed hard and passionately against hers. Before she even thought about how much she had missed this, the feel of him needing her, her hand met his cheek, the sound of which echoed through the mostly bare room.

Hermione stood there in utter disbelief. Draco said nothing. Didn't even raise his own hand to touch the now-reddened skin.

He _kissed_ her?

Kissed!

Hermione slapped him hard once more, giving his right cheek an equally impressive hand print. When she moved to hit him again, he caught her wrist and pulled her close. Hermione automatically stepped back, hating that she had to force her feet to do so. There always had been something almost magnetic about their attraction; refusing it was like saying the moon couldn't shift the tides.

"Don't," she whispered, avoiding his eyes and staring straight at the small patch of freckles she could see on his throat. "Don't do that again."

"Kiss you? Or let you hit me?" She watched as his adam's apple bobbed up and down and imagined his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. Apparation always seemed to dry Draco's mouth; it was something you could rely on him whining about whenever they got where they were going.

"Sorry," Hermione said, stepping back again and waiting for him to release his grip so she could gain some distance.

"Again, about the kiss or for hitting me?"

Irritation prickled quickly up her spine. "Why should I be sorry? _You_ kissed _me!_ "

Draco smirked, but it didn't quite have the same power it used to. Maybe all this time apart had weakened his hold on her somehow. "You _did_ kiss me back."

Nope, there it was. Her chest tightened and heat flooded her cheeks. "I most certainly did not!"

"I think you did."

She tugged at his restraints. "Let me go."

"Admit it."

"I can't, because I didn't."

"You can, because you wanted to, at the very least."

She stood her ground and finally raised her eyes to meet his. "Six months ago I would have. Three and I could have fooled myself into thinking it wouldn't be too bad. Last week and I would have just sworn at you." Somehow she managed to keep her words even-tempered, even if she was a mix of emotions on the inside. "I'm asking you, please, Draco. Let me go."

Hermione didn't know if it was the use of his name or some part of her impassioned plea but he dropped her hand and turned to face the Floo. Hermione tried to calm her thundering heart. She moved to sit on the sofa— _the_ antique sofa his mother had given them from one of her shopping expeditions in France—and studied the way his back shifted under his shirt with every ragged breath in and out.

Once she was satisfied both he and she had calmed down, Hermione started picking at a glob of blue paint on the covered arm of the chair from when she and Draco had painted the bathroom. The drop sheet really hadn't helped all that much. In the end he'd started a paint fight (or she had, did it matter any more?) which concluded in a whole lot of naked and interesting body parts looking like washed-out Cornish Pixies for days afterward.

"Cup of tea?" she asked tiredly. Arguing with him always took it out of her, whether it ended with them in bed together or Draco on the sofa and Hermione sleeping alone.

"I can't."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Of course. He probably could smell that she didn't have his favourite ruddy Earl Grey in the house. Picky prat that he was.

"Well, then, I think Blaise left one of Greg's lagers in there. Unfortunately, I've got none of your gin left. Poured the last of it down the sink this morning." Eh, it was slightly cruel, but Hermione was trying not to care about his feelings any more.

She had to start somewhere, and for now it would be through his stomach.

"Not that— what you asked me before."

Hermione stopped playing with the corner of paint she'd managed to lift from the hard cotton surface and looked up to find Draco gazing right back at her. Even from where she sat she could see something different in his look, and the intensity was worrisome.

"I can't—I didn't ask you anything."

He shook his head with a forced laugh. "You did. You asked me to leave."

Hermione was starting to think there was something seriously _wrong_ with Draco. Maybe that's what the half-heard conversation at the door when she'd arrived at the Goyles' was about, not wanting to see Draco "like that". Maybe the "that" was the fact he'd finally gone round the bend.

"Well, if you don't want a drink—and I think you made your point on who could stay at Milly and Greg's, so—"

"For Salazar's sake, Granger! I'm trying to tell you something here. Why can't you just listen?"

"I will if you stop shouting at me, Malfoy!"

Whatever he was about to say next died on his lips, and Hermione could only watch as he shook his head again and turned back to the fireplace. Really, now, this was getting absurd. He argued with her at the party, Apparated them without her permission to their home, and now he didn't want to leave? Well, it was just too late now, wasn't it?

"Look, I think you should just go—"

"I _can't_. Don't you understand? I _can't!"_

Hermione rubbed her fingers in slow circles against her temples as she felt one hell of a stress headache coming on.

A Malfoy-related migraine, at that.

"Draco—"

"So it's 'Draco' again, is it?"

"Malfoy, then—"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This is all coming out wrong. But it's you, and you make me—you can be so—I just need to tell you."

"Tell me what? Look, it's getting late and I have an early day tomorrow, so if you can—"

"No. I have to. You need to understand, it's just . . . ."

He pushed off the mantle and rounded on Hermione, his hands gesticulating as his next words spilled from his mouth like a dam bursting.

"Do you know how hard it is to still _feel_ like this when I'm not supposed to? To care about you so _fucking_ much even after telling—no, _convincing_ myself I would be better off without you, that having you out of my life would be far easier than having you in it? But it hasn't been, it hasn't. _Merlin_ , if you only knew how difficult it is." He paused, dragging long fingers down his clean-shaven face. "Having to hold myself back every time I hear your name, see someone that looks like you, smell your bloody perfume."

Hermione said nothing. She'd never seen Draco so worked up before and she had no answers for his questions. She'd never even considered how their break-up had been for him.

Not when he'd been the one to end it all.

He groaned, a pained look crossing his brow before he started pacing the floor between them. "I went to Italy to find relief and still, _still_ , you were everywhere. It was the wine I thought you'd like the taste of, so I bought a case. It was the view from the villa I stayed in that had sunsets I felt nothing for, because I couldn't watch _you_ watching them. It was holding myself back from accepting an offer to be the British liaison for the French Ministry, _purely_ because I couldn't make a decision without your input. _Your bloody input!_ "

He stopped in front of her and crouched down between her legs, and she could see the war raging in his pale silver eyes. Draco's hands rested lightly over hers where they rested on her thighs. "I love you. I love you so damn much and it's killing me that I can't stop." He stared at her, stared and breathed slowly in and out for more heartbeats than Hermione could count. She didn't know if he was waiting for her to say something—it wasn't as if she even knew _what_ to say. Draco's eyes scanned her face, his grip tightening over her fingers. It was almost as if he were looking for something, although for what Hermione wasn't sure. Minutes dragged on and finally he sighed, long and low, and let his head drop before standing and shifting back to lean against the Floo. "So there you go. Now you know why I can't go. You win, Hermione. You win."

They stayed like that, frozen in position, as Hermione's mind reeled, attempting to figure out just _what_ it was he was attempting to say to her. What did he mean by any of what he'd virtually word-vomited all over her? Was there truth to any of it? She had no idea what he wanted her to do with all this information; the fact that he could just say all of this without a thought to how any of it would make her feel had anger at her one-time love, long dormant, burning now like a liquid flame through her veins.

"I win?" Hermione started softly. "I _win?_ Just what game have we been playing unbeknownst to me that I've actually come first in, Malfoy?"

He didn't move, and the fact he didn't bother to acknowledge her annoyed her all the more.

"Seriously, what prize do I get in all of this? Is it the endless ache inside my chest that hasn't dissipated since you walked out on me, on us? Is it the sleepless nights, the red eyes that no glamour can completely hide after I've spent hours crying, tossing and turning, and wondering exactly what it is that I could have done better—how I could have _been_ better for you so you wouldn't go? And now you're here blaming me for what sounds like all the wrongs that have come to pass in the months you've been gone, and you say I'm a _winner_ here?"

Hermione was on her feet, stepping closer to his prone form as with every word she spoke, all her feelings of hurt transferred into anger—and more than that, a need to wound the man who had torn an unfixable hole inside her.

"You say you love me, but you don't want to. You say you hate the way you feel about me and you can't find a way to stop, and what—I should say thank you for this? Thank you for despising the way you can't shut off your emotions?"

Draco's chest lifted and fell in sharp bursts, perhaps the only sign that he was even listening to what she said. Hermione shook her head; she had a mind brimming full of words that she couldn't quite find the coherency to form into sentences, not that she knew what else to say anyway.

"Get out." She whispered it, yet there was strength and conviction hidden there. "Get out and just leave me alone, Malfoy. Take whatever it is you thought coming here and saying all of that to me would do for you and stay far away from me."

She waited for him to move, her hands still shaking as there came a faint sound from his side of the room.

"What was that?"

Draco shook his head, pushing off the mantelpiece and glared at her. "I said it shouldn't be hard, what with you leaving the country and all."

"Why does that even matter to you?"

"You're not _listening_. You never listened to what I had to say, and that was the problem!"

Hermione crossed her arms and stared Draco down. "I think I heard you loud and clear when you said we were over."

"You didn't even hear me then, did you? I never wanted this. Any of it."

"That was obvious when you _left_."

"I left because we weren't getting anywhere, because you—"

"—weren't listening. So you've mentioned. I heard you when you said you didn't want to be here any more. I heard you pack your things and I heard you call out for the Manor before you disappeared into Bessie. I heard you say you loved me once, and you left me anyway. I'm pretty sure there's _nothing_ wrong with my—"

"There you go again! Merlin's left tit, woman! You talk and talk and repeat what you _think_ you've heard, but you miss the point entirely!" Draco shouted, and the windows shook in their casings. Even Hermione could feel his magic unfurling around them, causing her own to bristle just under her skin.

She hadn't noticed her own magic like this since . . . well, since Draco had been around.

"Draco." Hermione said his name softly, waiting till he reined in his emotions and watching him carefully until his breathing had returned to normal.

Draco closed his eyes, nodding to himself before opening them to stare back at her again. The colour there was softer now, almost as if all the fight had left him just from that one great outburst. "I _love_ you. I never wanted to stop, I don't want to stop. I thought it was enough for you when I was here, but you always wanted more from me. I worked on that charity board like you asked, giving away more than I wanted to because it left me with less to spend on you—and before you start, I know I wasn't supposed to but I'm a _Malfoy_ , Hermione. I grew up watching my father cater to my mother's every whim, showering her with affection that was both physical and monetary, and it hurt that you wouldn't let me do that. I had to argue with you every time I paid for a meal, let alone brought something as frivolous as flowers home."

"Flowers die, Draco. I don't see the point—"

"No, I learned that fast. Why do you think I worked in the garden with you nearly every weekend? You're not _that_ great at warming charms, and Longbottom was happy to teach me things, seeing as it was all for you."

"Neville . . . ."

He nodded. "And Lovegood. She might drive me insane with all her half-talk and imaginary creatures, but she's always helpful when it comes to understanding you. When you thought we were—" He paused, and she felt the same pain he did when it flashed across his face and trembled in his fingers. "She walked me to the door of your room that day when all I could do was stand outside the bloody window of St Mungo's looking in."

"I didn't—"

"No, you didn't, of course you didn't. You wouldn't know about the times I've called in on Potter to try to pave the way forward so you could have him and that ginger-haired wanker back in your life, like I know you want. I even update Artie's wife about your life when I know she's dying to ask but, because she believes I stole you from her son, won't. I've tried so hard to make your life easier, to do these things for you so you'll stop looking backwards and see what's ahead of us, and what did it do? Nothing. Not even now do you look . . . happy. That's all I've ever wanted, and I thought leaving you would eventually get you there—and I come back to find you still looking like you failed all of your N.E.W.T.s!"

Hermione was quiet, taking in everything he said. All those nights when he was late or wouldn't tell her where he'd been . . . all those trips when he wouldn't give away much as to what he'd been doing; now from the sound of it, wherever he was, whatever he was doing, was all for her. Hermione had come to know that underneath his selfish, uppity exterior lay a man who felt more than anyone she'd ever known. He was loathe to show exactly how deeply he cared for his friends, his family . . . and now she knew it was her, too.

"I don't—" she sighed, rubbing the heels of her hands against her eyes. "None of this makes any sense. How—how could you think I'd ever be happy without you? You were everything to me. Yes, I missed having Ron and Harry in my life, but not when the price was not having you. At first I was lonely—I had you, but not the friends I was used to—but then Blaise and Greg came around, and even Pansy and Millie made everything different. Do you know Pans was my first real girlfriend? At Hogwarts the girls either were only interested in getting to Harry through me or hated me because they thought I was shagging them both. Millie and Pans were different, though. They liked me for _me._ And I know you had a lot to do with it, I know you asked them to make nice, but they were the first ones apart from Blaise to drop by when you'd gone. They got me drunk, they looked after me." She stepped back and sank down on the sofa.

"They're still looking after me. Our relationship wasn't perfect, Draco. Out of all our friends I thought we were the strongest, but you leaving proved to me that we weren't. I thought we talked enough, I thought we did enough together to make it through anything, and then you _left_ me. You walked out on us and it felt like you never cared at all. All of what you just said, all of this tonight, is the most honest you've ever been with me, and—and I just think if you had of said any of this, any of it, so much could have been different." Hermione put her head in her hands. Her whole body felt utterly drained from all that had been shared and revealed tonight. The house was completely quiet; there was only the distant humming of the fridge and a scraping of one of the fruit tree's branches on the kitchen window.

She felt him sit down beside her, the air between them warming as he shuffled close enough to touch but still kept some distance. Hermione didn't flinch when she felt his fingertips slide around her wrist. She let him slide his fingers into the space between hers. She squeezed back when he tentatively locked their hands together. They sat there, each minute shifting into the next, until Hermione was aware she was leaning against his shoulder, that his head was pressed against the side of hers.

"So," he said, clearing his throat and almost making her jump.

"So," she said back, not knowing what else there was to say.

Draco's thumb moved in soft circles over her skin, soothing and reminding her of all the other times he'd held her hand, done the same thing to reassure her he was there, that he wasn't leaving her alone. Too bad he'd never meant it—but then again, maybe he had.

"Where do we go from here?"

She turned her head and pressed her lips to his brow, revelling in the familiar scent of his hair, another part of _her_ Draco. "I don't know. I really don't know."


	4. Moving On

Moving On

The next thing Hermione knew, morning birds were disturbing the silence of her previous slumber. She blinked slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the light invading the room. The sun's rays turned the white gauzy curtains into something warm and golden; it spread across their skin, caressing their flesh to awakening, and slowly Hermione slipped back into consciousness. She could feel an arm that wasn't her own wrapped around her waist. Her hand was still firmly grasped in another's. The tiny hairs on her neck tickled with his every breath; his chest pressed hard against her back.

Draco.

Draco was here and holding her as they lay awkwardly on the tiny sofa. Memories of what had been said the night previous came rushing back. He still loved her. He wanted her; he wanted what they had been, certainly – he hadn't exactly said that, but it was there in the way he had taken her hand, the way he held her now. The real question was, did she want him?

It would be so easy to take him back. To pretend the past six months had been a dream, a nightmare. To shut every piece of hurt and loss into a box and just hit it with a mental Reducto and be done with it. They could start exactly where they'd left off. Draco could move back in, she'd return to her mind-numbingly boring job, and they'd do the garden on Saturdays and end up at one of their friends' places for dinner and a laugh every other Wednesday night. They'd holiday in spring at the vineyard, they'd talk about getting away somewhere warm for winter but end up holding the same Christmas Eve party they did every year, and life would once again become monotonous. They'd argue over the same little things that had annoyed them the first time until . . . until it all came crashing back down.

Draco shifted behind her, his fingers tightening their hold over hers, and Hermione leaned back into his embrace. She couldn't deny that she'd missed him. Gods, there was a time after he'd left when she'd felt like someone had literally taken a limb from her body, the loss was that acute. It had faded to a dull ache eventually – there had even been days lately when she hadn't even thought of him – and then something, a little thing, would remind her of him and the hurt would return. It was why she'd applied for a position so far away; sure, she could have gone to work in any number of the wizarding/Muggle legal firms in London, but there was always a chance she'd see him at the Ministry. Or at Diagon Alley when taking a business lunch. Or accidentally walking by his office in the vain hope that he'd be around so she could see him and then lie about why she was there. Pathetic really.

Hermione sighed. She ran her free hand back and forth over Draco's forearm, the golden hairs looking more so in the burgeoning daylight. He still loved her. Loved. A word he had said to her first, a word he'd used every day they'd been together; a nickname he'd bandy about when trying to sicken Blaise by how cutesy he could be with Hermione. Every goodbye had always ended with that same four-letter word, except his last one.

Hermione shut her eyes, willing her brain to just stop. This to-ing and fro-ing of decisions to make – heart or head, head or heart – was driving her mad, and she hadn't even been awake long enough to really think things through.

"Stop it," a thoroughly croaky, still-sleepy voiced mumbled into her neck.

"Stop what?" she whispered back. Just the sound of his voice had set her whole body on edge.

The hand he still had joined with hers shifted up against her chest, pulling her back against him. "Whatever it is you're thinking about. You've gone all tense."

She shivered involuntarily as he wrapped his leg further around hers. The touches, this embrace . . . it was all too familiar, too much like before, and it made her feel awkward. "Draco –"

"No." He stopped her with a fingertip over her mouth. "No, let's just – can we just lie here for a little longer? Just for a minute." She felt his lips nuzzle that tender spot below her ear. "Please," he finished, and she nodded lightly.

A minute. For a minute she'd put away all that needed to be said and worked out, and for a minute, sixty glorious seconds, she'd put all the hurt and questions on pause and just focus on _good_ this was.

His lips remained on her neck, unmoving but present all the same. She could feel his breath playing warmly across her skin, his body unyielding behind her, and for that moment she felt everything that being with Draco had once meant to her. Hermione tightened her hand in his, let herself relax and just _be._

But a minute, in the scheme of things, isn't long, even when stretched into a further five or ten.

"All right, I know you have things to say. Tell me you at least have _some_ tea left on the premises," he said, releasing her hand and leaving her feeling awkward as he pulled back, leaving the tiniest but an acute space between them.

Hermione stood, stretching her arms above her head and standing on her tippy-toes as she nodded yes. "Only the bag stuff you're not fond of. I packed everything else."

He was sitting and rubbing at his eyes when she finished yawning. He looked rumpled and delicious, even with the lines from the seat's upholstery in harsh red lines across his cheek. "I remember – none of my fancy tea, as you said last night." Draco stood and held his hand out to her as he stepped towards the kitchen. Hermione's eyes flickered to the offering and she hesitated.

She couldn't take it.

And with that, all the warmth that had built up between them in their still semi-sleepy state disappeared and the awkwardness between them resumed. Within a blink Draco's hurt from her reaction was there and then gone from his eyes so fast that if she hadn't known him better she would likely never have seen it. A small sigh escaped his lips as he dropped his hand and continued through the door to the kitchen.

Hermione shook herself once he'd disappeared around the corner. They'd talked so much the night before, talked until they'd not been able to utter another word, and still no decision had been made about what the next step between them would be. So many truths spoken, so many hurts healed – well, not healed completely, because one conversation was surely not going to fix anything completely, but it was a start.

A large breath in and out later, she followed him.

Draco was pants at making tea, and the fact that he'd at least got the kettle on and the bags in the cups was an effort in itself. He stood with his back against the kitchen sink, his eyes focused on the kettle, as Hermione took down two of the chairs she'd placed on top of the small, round breakfast table the day before. The quiet grew between them, morning birds piercing it with song just as loud as the sound of the kettle's whistle was a few minutes later.

Tea made – thank gods she still had a few drops of milk in the fridge – Draco placed her cup in front of her and sat down in the vacant chair. For the moment, she focused on the fact that he'd remembered she didn't like any sugar in her tea and ignored the weight, lying heavy between them, of decisions yet to be made. He sipped and she sipped and half a dozen times one or other of them paused and took a breath, looking as if they were about to say something and then going back to staring into their cups like they held all the answers.

Maybe that Divination class could have been helpful.

Then again, it was bag tea – not really going to be useful at all.

When Draco finished and put his cup down and Hermione was idly running her finger around the brim of hers, she spoke. "I'm still leaving," she said, almost without thought as to what it was she was going to say. She didn't look up, just kept circling her finger around and around. "I need to go. I made a commitment to the firm up there and I've paid two months rent on my flat and –"

"Good."

"– I've already handed in my notice here and – wait, did you say good?" she asked, finally pausing after the fact that registered that he'd spoken during her listing of the reasons she was still going.

"Yes. I – I didn't expect you to stay, no matter what I said." Draco paused and Hermione raised her head, finally looking him in the eye. He looked sure, certain of what he was saying – calm even – but that could have been the tea; it always had had some miraculous effect on his moods. "I want you to be happy, Hermione. If that means without me, then –" He shrugged and looked back down at the tabletop.

"Right," she answered. Gods, what was she supposed to do with that? In one way she still loved him, loved how good it had felt to wake in his arms again this morning and how even the feeling of sitting across from him like this, in what had been their kitchen, was so familiar, so perfect, she didn't want to spoil it with words.

Draco reached over and lay his hand upon hers, stilling her relentless circling on the cup, and placed them both on the tabletop. "The thing is, Hermione, I don't _want_ it to be without me. I've lived without you long enough. I don't expect one conversation to heal everything between us. To be quite frank, some part of me is sure that if we did just jump back into bed together – figuratively speaking – we'd end up in the same place we did last time."

Hermione had forgotten how clear his eyes could be, that shade between gray and silver that looked almost unearthly. As he stared at her now, his thumb rubbing over the side of her hand, warm and comforting, she believed what he said. As it was echoing her own thoughts.

"You really did hurt me so much, Draco. But I still love you. After allwe've done to each other, I don't think that will ever fade."

"And I still love you."

A moment passed. His fingertips stroking against her skin kept her grounded, yet her head was filled with a thousand thoughts. Could they try again? Would anything be different if they did? Could she be different? Would space between them that was mutually agreed upon let them rebuild from the beginning, when it had been so good? Had it ever really been that good at all?

Draco smiled as his fingers circled her wrist. "Will you – will you come here, sit with me? I can see that overly large brain of yours ticking, and, well, I'd really like to hold you right now."

The "in case it's the last time I ever get to" wasn't said but was implied all the same. Hermione nodded, knowing herself that she wanted to be held by him, if only for a moment to remember what it had been like before.

She stood and shifted around to his side, seating herself on his lap and welcoming his arms around her as she ducked her head to fit against his neck. Draco turned and his first lips found a way to her brow, then his cheek as he held her so close there was almost no space between them. Hermione found her hand twisting a stray piece of cotton on one of his buttonholes, wanting to say so much and not knowing how to say any of it.

"What are you going to do about your job?" she asked, revelling in that sleep-warm scent that was purely Draco, a warmth and musk she had missed more than she'd thought. Her body reacted by leaning in further; gods, she'd _missed_ him, missed what they had been in the better parts.

"Take it, probably. It's something I've always wanted, and by them offering it to me – well, maybe it finally means I've done enough good in the world for it to cancel out the rest." He turned his face and she could feel the cool skin of his cheek against her forehead.

If she looked up, tilted at the right angle, their lips would be in perfect alignment. She would know – it was in positions like this that they'd sat most Sunday mornings, which ended up in the most amazingly slow chair sex at least every other weekend.

That, she _had_ missed.

This wasn't helping anything, sitting this close and smelling him the way he'd always been and having him be this . . . person she'd always known he was but had never really recognised. Probably because he'd never really recognised it himself.

"So you'll be out of the country, anyway," she said, a hollowness forming low in her stomach at the thought. It wouldn't matter that she was leaving, because he'd still be gone. There wasn't much hope for fixing what they'd broken if they weren't even close enough to talk.

"Sort of. It's not as if I have to stay in France all the time. There are such things as Portkeys, and I could Apparate."

"Long distance Apparition is dangerous, Draco. Remember that Wollowitz fellow who tried to Apparate from Russia to Singapore? It's not worth the effort." _That_ had been a story all the papers had run, and for about a month, until the story was somewhat forgotten, everyone in the wizarding community had travelled by Floo or Portkey, both networks becoming completely clogged. Some had even resorted to riding by broom and there'd been an influx of flying carpets that had the Ministry bustling with extra work.

"It's just the Channel, dear," Draco said, and Hermione could hear the roll of his eyes in that remark.

She pulled at a golden hair that had poked its way through the gap of his shirt, and he squeezed her side where she was the most ticklish. The gasps and giggles followed by "don'ts!" and "do you _know_ how long it took me to grow hair there?" only encouraged further pokes and prods to gain reactions, until both were breathless with laughter. He was right there then, as she opened her eyes and wiped at the tears that had sprung there from one particularly good tickle he'd played over her ribcage. He breathed and she breathed and their eyes met, and then it was Draco who leaned in, or maybe Hermione, but then they were kissing and laughter was the last thing on her mind.

Until he pulled back just as the tip of her tongue entered his mouth.

Draco turned his head and Hermione felt her face flood with heat as she stared at the clock she had forgotten to take down from the opposite wall.

"Sorry."

"I shouldn't have –"

"No, it was me I got carried –"

"No, I know how you –"

"– and I know that you –"

They stopped, caught each others eyes, and smiled, chuckling again.

It should have been awkward. She should have been off his lap and creating space between them, but she couldn't. Wouldn't.

Not for all the gold in Gringotts.

Draco took her hand in his. "I want to try again. I want to take it as slow as we need to to make it right this time. I don't want to lose you."

She glanced down to where his long, pale fingers fit between her smaller ones. It should have been an easy answer. It shouldn't have required thought, because for the longest time it was all she had wanted – Draco at the door or popping in through Bessie or Apparating at her office, or even his head in the fireplace telling her it was all for nothing and he was coming home, coming back to her.

Yet the hurt still lanced inside her, cold in a place that used to be so warm.

"Slow," she repeated. "I think I could handle slow."

His smile could have lit up the entire British kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to come :D


End file.
